Because I knew it was going to be a one-way conversation, I brought some props: an Hermes scarf she'd given me many years ago, family photographs and a few pieces of heirloom jewelry to jog her memory. I'd put off visiting my 94-year-old Aunt "Babe" (nicknamed by her brother, my dad) for over a year and a half. After she suffered a series of strokes, my cousins were advised to move her into a nursing home that specialized in "memory support." Code for Alzheimer's and dementia. I was reticent to the make the trip to Chicago for many reasons. I knew that when I looked into her eyes, I would be seeing the same aquamarine hue of my father's, and that would trigger my grief over his death, that aimless, weighted, hollow longing in my chest. I also knew when I looked into her eyes, there was no assurance that I would find Babe in...
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